Johnlock, Sherlock returns
by MsAnnieOakley1
Summary: John cannot fathom what to do with his life now that Sherlock took that leap. His life is dark, and he just wants to die. Memories flash back, emotions run rampant, tears flow and sadness ensues. What is John to do? prepare for the feels.
1. The Shower

The dull gray hose came to life and began to spray the water through the shower head with a loud splattering sound that seemed to bounce off of the brown tiled wall and radiate out the door and echo through the empty house. John let out a deep sigh and began to unbutton his shirt slowly and methodically-remembering the feeling of Sherlock's hands doing the same just three days ago- and once he had undone all the buttons he slipped off of the white material and revealed scared, tan flesh. With a sidelong glance John noticed his reflection in the mirror and saw a pale, terrified, and sad man whom looked like he couldn't live another minute.

"_Sh-Sherlock, w-what are you doing?" The man had leaned forward on the plush couch and caught John off guard when he actually fell on top of him. Now he laid there lightly with his his ear pressed against John's chest so that his curls sprawled out over John's blue dress shirt, and his legs pulled up so that they were tucked under John's own. The much taller man's hand shot up to press a slim finger to the moving lips to silence him. _

"_Shut up John."_

_Perplexed, John laid there with the other man on top of him. Oddly he wasn't offended by the gesture, if anything he liked the closeness of Sherlock. It had been so long since he had had any human affection. That and the consultant was so unpredictable that John really couldn't figure out what he had planned so he just went with it. _

"_John?" The deep baritone of his voice caused reverberations throughout his body that radiated into John's and made him feel odd inside-a good odd. "John your heartbeat," He paused and slid his head up to meet the man eyes whose chest he was resting on. Ice blue eyes that sent John's heart into a flurry of beats that caused embarrassment, and caused a wild smile to cross Sherlock's face, "it is so peculiar." The man stopped and before John knew what was happening he was poised above him with his knees on either side of his hips and his bottom resting on John's upper thighs-dangerously close to his groin area- and his hands resting on either side of his upper body, causing his head to hang inches from John's. _

"_Sherlock I don't understand what on Earth you are doing." But he did as he looked into those eyes that had slowly began to turn hazel. He was testing John. And he was failing. He was failing as the consultant poised over him attractively, causing John's heart to beat wildly and his body to grow very warm. _

"_So when I go like this," Sherlock scooted forward to rest his bony bottom on John's groin and took his hands and unbuttoned the top button of the doctor's shirt seductively, "does it cause it to beat faster?" Suddenly his bottom scooted back to its original position and his ear fell on John's slightly opened shirt. Cold ear to burning flesh. _

Shit,_ thought John. In fact his heart was beating the fastest it ever had and the deranged man rubbing on his nether regions wasn't helping. "Holmes this is absolutely absurd."_

_Another scoot up. Bony butt to erect groin. _Dammit. _"Oh! John," the tormentor paused and wiggled his bottom on John, "I do say." More shirt buttons undone then a pause. He had stopped abruptly. Then without warning he shot off of the couch and blushed a red that John had never seen on him before. "Er-um that'll be all. You fail." _

John's hand ran through his blonde hair as he tried to fathom why Sherlock had done such as obscene thing. The only problem was that John had liked it. But then tears began to sting his blue eyes as the memory can flaring back-that phone call. That call had ruined it all. It had shattered his world.

No. _I cannot think of this..not yet. _John denied himself as he blinked rapidly and removed his trousers and undergarments. Once fully unclothed John approached the ajar shower curtain and shoved his large hand underneath the steam of water but instantly removed it when he felt nothing but ice cold water. _Dammit. The heater must be broken again. _He would fix it, but recalled with a sigh that it was in fact Sherlock who had always fixed the device when it malfunctioned-leaving John clueless, and even more exhausted.

Tears once again threatened to form but John forced them away. He couldn't let it happen, couldn't let the hysteria take him over again-not like after his best friend dropped that call phone and took that step- no not again.

"_Sherlock! Sherlock don't!" His screams echoed off of the buildings falling on deaf ears. "NO!" There he was, a black cloaked figure poised on the edge of the building, arms outstretched. Then, a step. Falling encased in black, curls slicked back in the wind-the figure fell. _

_Utter and absolute hysteria. A tan hand clutching a non-beating ebony wrist, screaming…_

John felt his body harden as he stepped under the freezing water. Soon he realized that he really had no need for a shower-not a cold one- and haltingly lowered his head to rest against the shower wall, sliding his eyes shut in sadness. What was he to do?

Thoughts. He couldn't fight them away. Thoughts of Sherlock, and his ebony skin. God that flawless white skin. His icy eyes that almost never showed emotion and would occasionally slide to a hazel color, his perfectly slender and lengthy figure that stood at least a half foot taller than John's own, and his black curly hair that added to his beauty. His beauty, _He was beautiful, _John realized and snapped his eyes open in realization-centimeters from the shower wall-, _he was attractive and I was attracted to him.. _John stopped in his tracks and was jolted back to the night before it had happened...

_Sherlock stood there in the fading sunlight, his profile outlined by the beautiful red and pinks that racked the sky. The doctor and consultant had solved a case not even an hour ago and were standing outside the door that led to their flat, but for some reason Sherlock had stopped him from inserting his key into the lock. "You know Sherlock, this is absolutely absurd. Unless you have something dire to inform me of, I would indeed desire to go to bed." Though the sunset made it hard to see the towering man's face, John could tell that something was wrong. His normal scowl had been replaced with an ordinary sad expression. This almost never happened. "Sherlock? What is wrong?" _

_The unpredictable man turned his head to the side and glanced down the road to the left then the right, sending his curls in a fury, then returned to face his partner. "John? Can I tell you something?"_

_Wondering what his flat mate had to say that no one else could hear, and why he wanted to talk to John, because he never shared his feelings. "Y-yeah Sherlock, whatever you need- you can tell me."_

_Sherlock took a tedious step toward the building's wall and pretended to study it. "If something were to happen to me, would you be upset?" _

_John turned toward him, baffled. He could only answer the truth, "Of course."_

_"How upset?" He blundered and reached a hand to run it over the brick surface. _

_"W-what?"_

_"John," Sherlock said forcefully and turned towards him, his icy stare burning into him, __**"how upset."**_

_"Very!" He blurted in reply. Those eyes... "I would be deeply upset Sherlock, and you seem foolish to not know this: you mean the world to me," John paused and felt a weird stirring inside of him. A warmth spreading from the center of his stomach to his outermost appendages, "You.." deep swallow-he had to word this right, "You mean the world to me. I don't know what I'd do without you. I can't fathom what it would be like to wake in the dark morning and not smell you brewing some concoction, and when the shinning trendels of sunlight begin to seep through the drawn curtains, I couldn't think what it would be like for them not to reflect blindingly off of your unearthly pale skin." Flowing from his heart. "If anything were to happen to you my world would be in ruins. The flat would radiate the emissions of your fleeting presence. I would live in a gray world that I would no longer desire to carry on. I would slowly slid into insanity: you keep me stable. Sherlock.. you are the only thing in this depressing world that I care about." John was now red hot throughout his soul, and tears streamed from his face, making him feel foolish. "Sherlock, if something happened to you this world would lose the most selfish, most incoherent, most unpredictable, and most unfeeling person on Earth."_

_Tears erupted from Sherlock's eyes as he dropped to his knees and covered his mouth. "John..." _

_John dropped to his own knees and gingerly took the weeping man's face in his hands and continued, "Sherlock your selfishness, incoherence's, utter un-predictableness and lose of emotions make you who you are. And the world needs you for you. I would not be the only one lost without a presence like yours daily." _

_Sherlock's hands slide off his face and landed in his lap, utter shock playing on his sharp face. Before John could continue, though, Sherlock blurted something that his flat mate would never forget: "John, I love you."_

Coldness. Nothing but coldness. That was all that John felt, but oddly yet not surprisingly he could not remove himself from the shower. His newly fountaining tears mixed and blended with the freezing water to be carried down and away forever. He loved Sherlock. Without a doubt. "Sherlock... I need you."

Without realizing it John turned and slowly slid down the shower wall, landed on the floor and pulled his knees to his chest, shivering. _Maybe I will acquire hypothermia and freeze to death. Then I can be with Sherlock. _He closed his eyes and rested his forehead to his knees and wished for death.

But something happened, the cold slowly began to disappear, and it was replaced with warmth. John believed the warmth to be the sensation of dying, and urged it on, but when he realized he could still hear the sound of shower running he slowly regained his senses to around him without opening his eyes. He felt a closeness. The closeness of a body? And that smell... Was that Sherlock's cologne? He gingerly opened his eyes and found a nude Sherlock, alive and in the flesh sitting on the shower floor beside him with his arms wrapped around him and John's head resting against his pale chest. Water was streaming overtop of them, but it was unnoticed. Sherlock was here and alive.

"Sher-"

"Shh." He shushed John and looked into his eyes and began to slowly lean forward until his lips were less than a centimeter away from John's. His breath was warm as he looked down at the lips he was about to kiss, then back up and went for it.

Sunlight. Sirens. Traffic. The telly. Baffled John looked around and saw that he was on the couch, cradling a shirt of Sherlock's that was emitting the familiar musky smell of the man, wrapped in a blanket fresh out of the dryer.

_It was a dream..._ John began to cry, burning salty tears. "Sherlock! Bloody hell why!?" He sobbed. "I need you.." He buried his head into the blanket that Ms. Hudson must have brought up and wrapped him in. "Sherlock I need you..." His cries unanswered, all the broken man could do was cry and wish for death.

Staring at the bawling man made tears erupt from his eyes. It was all he could do to stay hidden in the shadows of the kitchen and not reveal himself. He had snuck in and found him shivering like hell on the couch and immediately grabbed a blanket and threw it over him. Then his screams. He couldn't bear them. He had to throw his hands over his marble ears and try to block the sound-it didn't work. The only person he loved in the world needed him, but thought him dead. _John I'm so sorry. I wish... I wish I could take it back.. _

_In and almost inaudible voice the unpredictable man whispered, "I need you too." _


	2. The Text Message

_**Well I'm sorry it took so long to get this chapter written, it was long and tedious and I was extremely busy, but I hope you guys like it, I know I do. I got it done just in time for my trip to West Virginia tomorrow so I won't be publishing anything for about a week, but after that: BE PREPARED FOR FEELS. **_

The world of semi-consciousness lingered in John's mind as the dream that he would most likely forget intertwined with reality. Willing the dream to overcome the wakefulness that was growing evermore powerful, he pulled his dark blue comforter over his head and intertwined his hands within it as he bunched his knuckles to his eyes. Whatever the dream had been about it had been a happy one- a big step away from the nightly horrors that raked his dreams and resulted him in getting little to no sleep at all.

He didn't want to go to the surgery today for it seemed like a useless idea. Why help people who just caused irrational thoughts within their heads to conjure up an unrealistic idea that they had some extremely rare disease that would kill them? But as he laid there and the unconscious world subsided, he unfurled and kicked the covers off of himself, sending them off of the bed with a _whoosh_. He usually got up right away and hopped into the shower in order the wash the nightmare away- but today he just felt like laying there.

Peering around his bedroom John noticed that it was a dull gray day outside from the thin streaks of light that forced their way through a slit in the curtains. Another dull gray day. _Of course_. A glance at his bedside clock revealed to a shocked Watson that it was 11:35. He had slept in-and he never slept in. _Quite peculiar. _With a pull of his large hand through his messy blonde hair John concluded that it must have been the dream that caused this extravagant behavior, and sat up and began the stretch. His bare tanned chest rubbed against his loose fitting plaid pajama pants as he reached toward his toes- once, twice then three times. God it felt good to stretch, he was so stiff, but John noticed that he had never really been able to lay his chest and it must be from the fact that he had lost at least fifty pounds.

With a crack of his back he swung his legs over the side of his small bed and reached for his house coat, but stopped as he recalled that there was no need for it. He lived alone.

Alone. No Sherlock.

With an exasperated sigh he rose from his bed and headed for the kitchen, his heavy steps bouncing off of the walls. He could hear Ms. Hudson below in her apartment and wondered if she would visit again today like she did every day for she believed that John is going to commit suicide. Along with Mycroft, Lestrade, and probably the rest of the police department-hell even Anderson showed concern.

When he passed through the lounging room he paused to look around. As his eye grazed over the empty mantle place he remembered how painful it had been to see all of Sherlock's things every time he walked into the house; that ivory skull with its gaping sockets, the knife that was shoved into the dark wood that never moved, and everything else that the bloody genius had left there and never moved. He just couldn't stand it so he had taken a day off of work to pack all of Sherlock's things up in tightly sealed boxes and packed them in his room. He even had shoved the chair he always sat in into that small room. It had been an emotional day. It had been almost a year and he still missed the man, and every day as he passed this room the emptiness hit him in the heart. He missed him.

He shook the thoughts from his head and forced tears that were threatening to begin away and continued to the kitchen. As he reached for his cell phone that was always left charging on the marble counter it suddenly began to chime, signifying a text message. "I wonder who that could be." John mumbled and reached for it. Only when he picked it up and pushed it open did the annoying high-pitched chime stop. The message was from and unknown number. Baffled John ran his hand through his hair again as he pushed the open button to read it, and paused when all it said was, "I'm so sorry." Confused John pulled his hand right out of his hair leaving it messier than before and set down the black phone.

First of all he didn't know the number so he probably should just ignore it because it seemed to be from someone who had the wrong number, second he didn't know of anybody whom would have the need to apologize to him for any actions that had occurred.

John opened the fridge door and shivered as a cold blast of air hit his bare chest. He wasn't really hungry despite the fact that he hadn't eaten anything the day before, and had slept right through breakfast. Recently he had stopped eating anything at all anyway-which probably added to the committing suicide factor- but he dug through the fridge anyways. All he found was leftovers that Ms. Hudson brought daily; noodle salad, some meatloaf, browning salads and some fish n' chips that she had 'left over' from a dinner that she had gone to (but John really knew that she had bought it just from him). She brought these in the hope he would eat them, and of course he never did.

Nauseous at the sight of all the food, he immediately shut the door and shivered. He was just about to reach for the black sweater that he had thrown across the chair, but was abruptly stopped when his phone began to go off again. Now even more confused as before, John growled and grabbed the soft material as one of his sudden mood changes took over- for months now they happened and he wouldn't take prescriptions for them. Slipping the fleece garment that had once been tight on him but now hung loosely off of his pectorals, he stepped forward to pick up the phone again and read the text, "John. I'm sorry."

"_John-I'm so sorry!"_

No. Not another horrid flash back. Not again. He could feel it coming on, and clenched his eyes shut in order to stop it.

"_I'm a fraud!" _

"_No!" _

He could feel it taking over and tried to grip the edge of the counter. In a fetal attempt to get his mind off of it he tried to call out for Ms. Hudson. "Ms. Hudson," a squeaky whisper before it took over.

"_John-I'm so sorry!" Sherlock yelled into the cell phone and outstretched his hand, seemingly reaching for John. His black cloak shifted and twirled as the high winds lifted and moved over the top of the tall building on which he was poise, soft sunlight escaping through the cloud cover sent sharp shadows across his deep cheek hallows. "This is my letter—they do that don't they?"_

_ "Sherlock, you're okay! Just stay there!" He made an attempt to head towards the building but froze as a tearful voice shouted into his ear. _

_ "John! Don't move, keep your eyes on me.. Please. I'm sorry.."_

The memory flashed back and his knees gave out-causing him to crumple to the hard kitchen floor with a loud thud. Was this Sherlock? What a foolish thought. No-it couldn't be, John saw him fall from that building and witnessed his blood seep out of his smashed skull. "S-Sherlock?" John began muttering. _Oh God, _the doctor thought as he realized that another one of his many memory induced panic attacks was starting, but he couldn't stop it-it was too late. John's mind had been taken over by a black cloud, causing him to think nothing but panicking thoughts. They devoured his sane mind and turned him unstable.

"John? John dear are you all right?" Ms. Hudson called faintly from the door, having heard his fall to the ground as he had done a few times before.

The cold of the ground seeped into John's paling cheek as he lay there, twitching. He had hit his head hard on the ground when he made contact and it pounded. He had a concussion-and Ms. Hudson fumbling with her keys at the door sent massive explosive pain shooting through his head.

"Sherlock.. Y-you're dead.." the panicking Watson mumbled against the floor, "You-you texted me? Was it y-you?" As if an apparition Ms. Hudson was on her knees beside John, speaking kind gentle words to him, but as he looked up at her through his shaking vision he found her horrified. "I don't understand.." He shakily whispered and realized the phone was still in his hand-and it is going off.

"John honey, what happened? Who do I need to call?" The elderly woman murmured and reached an arthritis ruined hand to run through his hair like a mother would a sick child. _John Watson, this is incredibly foolish-it is not Sherlock whom texted you, no need to panic. Calm down. _John tried to convince himself unsuccessfully.

_But only someone as stupidly smart as him would text you from a random number. Hell he's done it before._

_No-he's dead. _

Now he was having a conflicting thought process running through his mind, and the high pitched twinkling of the phone caused him to grown.

John's twitching had begun to cease, but he was still hyperventilating and frozen on the spot with his limbs sprawled out across the kitchen floor-making him feel vulnerable- and to make matters worse his head hurt like the dickens. "M-s. H-Hudson," He managed to stammer when he realized what he needed, "I n-need you t-to g-get M-Mycroft." Feeling the urge to get off of the floor, John began to move his shaky hands underneath of him and started to push but came crashing down as pain exploded inside his skull. He was lucky Ms. Hudson was there or he would have cracked his head open due to the fact that she reached out just in time to catch the ten pound dead-weight. Her hands were seemingly burning compared to John's flesh, almost making his withdraw.

"Honey-here," his rescuer grunted as she used her frail body to push him over onto his back and disappeared for a minute and returned in a flurry of dizzying movement and gingerly lifted John's head to shove a throw pillow underneath that she had grabbed from the couch. Sherlock's throw pillow- it had been one Sherlock placed there, and his musky scent seemed to linger on it. _Oh no-_ his mind began to go black around the edges causing him to begin to breath harder, and his left hand began twitching quickly-a hammering sound on the white floor. "John. Calm-" She took his shaking hand and held it tight, "deep breaths. How do I get ahold of Mycroft?"

"The c-cellphone in m-my hand. His n-number is in i-t."

As the elderly lady slid the slim phone from his hand, John tried to remember why he had break downs like the one he was having now. He slowly ceased in his shaking as he tried to remember the first time that he had one- it was right after Sherlock had jumped. He had been kneeling in the spreading pool of blood and couldn't stop shivering. Shortly afterward he had blacked out and the only reason that he knew this, was because he had woken up in St. Bart's the next day and had been told by a doctor. The episodes had progressively gotten worse and would happen unexpectedly. It had taken him weeks to figure out what the trigger for them was, and eventually came to the realization that it was the very simple name: Sherlock. And last week when he had woken up on the couch after that horrible shower dream he had lost it.

"Yes, Mr. Holmes, John says that he needs you to come over." There was a pause while Mycroft mumbled something into the phone and she nodded then whispered so that John couldn't hear, "He's having one of those mental breakdowns." She nodded again and snapped his phone shut and placed a light hand on John's shoulder and spoke gently to him like he was a child, "Mycroft is on his way here, he said he would be a few minutes." Ms. Hudson stopped and made eye contact with John for a split second. Her eyes were a deep brown that were filled with concern that John caught before she shot them away and she changed the subject to try and talk to him like she always does when she pesters him. "There was a text message on your cell when I grabbed it," She perkily said. "Would you like me to read it to you? The number isn't in your contact thingy, but they seem to know you because they have texted you several times it would appear." She released his hand then shoulder and she picked up the phone again from where she placed it on the floor and began clicking away on it.

At first John was confused as to what she was talking about, until he realized that number was the reason he had the panic attack. He sat bolt upright, startling the house keeper as she let out a small _oh!_ and just like that John stopped having a mental breakdown and ripped the phone from her hands. Of course he still had a concussion, and his head hurt like hell, but he needed to think-think about those messages.

"Oh dear! John are you okay? What are you doing, what's going on?" A shocked Hudson stammered.

John sat there and stared at the unopened text message and decided not to open it until Mycroft got there so turned his attention to Ms. Hudson. "I'm fine now, thank you. When Mycroft arrives please send him up." She looked confused so John slowly rose as to not pass out and helped her to her feet then gave her a quick peck on her wrinkled cheek. "Thanks for helping me and understanding that I cannot help this, but I need you to leave now."

"Oh. Okay. Um-" she looked at John, turned away and headed for the door, "I'll send Mr. Holmes up."

"Mhm, thanks." He studied the number that he received the messages from and found that it appeared to be a number from the United States, not Britian and it must cost a large sum of money to send a message all that way-unless they were close by- and John concluded that they were either very easy with their money, or they were in England somewhere. But if they had texted the wrong number (quite coincidentally someone named John) they would get a shocking cell bill.

So which was it?

Mycroft banged open the flats door and stormed in with thundering footstep that hurt John's pounding head. When he reached the lounge he stopped to find John perched on the top of the chair with his feet resting on the arms of it. Dangiling between his widespread appendages in the palm of his hands was a tightly gripped cellphone. If it weren't for the occasional twitch of his hand Mycroft would have thought him dead by the way that his head was hanging and his eyes closed.

"What the hell-"

"Shhhhh!" John snapped and slowly raised his head and put a finger to his temple. "I have a concussion, and it is bloddy killing me. I would appreciated you not shouting." He was still staring at the phone.

The tall man growled and took off the black hat he had on and set it set it easily on the back of the chair nearest him, "John what on Earth is going on? I was quite busy when Ms. Hudson called me-in fact I was in a meeting and-".

"I had a breakdown, because of this," he rapidly clicked something on his phone and whipped his hand in the direction of the frustrated man who slowly stepped forward and grasped it.

Before he look at the slim black device he studied John who had slowly raised his hands to his head and was rubbing small circles at his temples. "You know you're acting just like my brother did." He seemed to ignore him as he coninued with his methodical motions and squinted his eyes in hard concentration on the floor in fromt of him.

With a sigh he glanced down at the phone and found that John had pulled up the second text that John had received and read it repeatedly then glance up at and found the oddly acting man stareing at him intently and then shrugged his shoudlers. "Well?"

"Well what Myrcoft? Don't you find it quite odd that your dead brother texted me?"

"What makes you think this is my brother? Sherlock is dead. The selfish bastard committed suicide."

"Go to the next message! The last one I had received!"

Mycroft obediently did so and froze. That caught him off guard as he stared first at the phone, then at John with his mouth gaping open. When he finally snapped to it all he could muster was a weak, "What?"

" Well don't act like you didn't know. I have spent enought time living with that rediculous man you call a brother to be able to deduct to an extent to know: Sherlock Holmes is not dead-oh quite the opposite- he is very much alive and quite well." John rose from the chair on which he perched and took two quick steps towards the stunned Mycroft and jabbed a finger at him, his eyes blazing and red as if he'd been crying.

"Sherlock Holmes is alive. And you know it."

The text massage read: "SH."


	3. Tim Cumbersham

A darkly dressed figure hunched over himself on the tiny bench that was clearly visible to the curtain-drawn windows of 221b Baker Street. His un-kept hair hung down his face in knotted curls that looked as if they hadn't been brushed in days. The clothes which surrounded him were several sizes to large, having not fit for months now-a good indication that he had ceased eating anything a while back. His normally pressed/ironed pants were carelessly wrinkled and creased and leading downward his loafer's shoelaces were lazily tucked in under the lounge, not tied at all. If it hadn't been for the expensive appearance of his clothing a passerby may have mistaken him for a bum. He was a wreck.

Having been in America for the past year, he had just gotten back, taking the alias "Tim Carlton Cumbersham" to hide from his faked death in Britain, and it worked, to an extent. The problem? He missed John Watson dearly. He felt like a traitor for making the man who had gone through a lot in his life, and after helping him get over a lot of it by taking him to crime scenes and to help solve cases, go through Sherlock Holmes's 'death'. Hell he even made him stand there and watch as he fell from the roof top of St. Bart's. The only reason that Tim knew that John was taking it really hard was the fact that Mycroft Holmes, who had been filled in on the whole situation and was told to keep his eyes on Watson to make sure he didn't do anything foolish like commit suicide, had informed his brother that John had been hospitalized several times for panic attacks, anorexia and once for a self-induced comma that no one could quite figure out. The only thing that he cared about in this world was wasting away to nothing.

Hearing all of this, a heart broken Tim had returned from the colonies with a new mobile in hand (having stored away his previous to avoid past contacts) and realized there was only one way to save the elfish man that he loved: he had to plant a seed of hope- similarly to the seed of doubt that Moriarty had planted in Donovan's mind- a seed of hope that would cause John Watson to believe that there was a chance Sherlock Holmes was out there somewhere. Alive, well, and breathing. It would be hard, yes, for he had seen Sherlock's smashed skull against that pavement, and had quite forcefully watched his fall all the way down to contact.

So the disheveled man had left his rundown motel in the dark hours of the morning, and shuffled his way to Baker Street Park. The whole while he was praying that it worked.

There was only one issue: Mycroft knew nothing of Tim's new mission. If he were to find out he was sure to put a stop to it. Immediatly.

It was about fifteen degrees out, and when he exhaled a small puff of white rose up from his lips and lingered momentarily before drifting off into the empty air. He had been waiting there all morning, since around four A.M.-waiting for signs of life to show from within the apartment with no success for a long time. Several times he had watched those same curtains all day, wishing that he could just see that slightly scared face one more time He was just about to give up and leave when around noon the beige curtains gave the slightest indication of movement that meant a person walking around.

Tim froze. Now his plan was set into motion. He had sat on almost every park bench in the city, all night, every night for the past week pondering how he was to carry out his brilliant idea. With a yawn he realized he was running on five hours of sleep in the past week and a half-the longest he had ever gone on such little slumber. It didn't take a genius like himself to realize that soon his body was going to start shutting down, and stop functioning properly.

_I'll bloody sleep once I get closure. _A stern face Tim thought as he begun breathing heavily moved his fingers quickly over the mobile's keypad. But he hesitated at sending the message that would change everything. Never before had he felt so absurd at his reaction to the thought. Why did he feel this way about John Watson? The sandy blonde evoked odd emotions from him, emotions that he had never before experienced in his life before he met the once frail war torn man.

_For God's sake, all the message says is, "I'm sorry." _ Tim thought angrily to himself. He knew John kept his mobile on the kitchen counter, and was near it now, meaning he had to send the message. His hands began shaking as his thumb moved haltingly toward the 'send' button and froze once he hit it.

With a snap of his head upwards he wished he was inside the flat, where he could see the look on the message receiver's face. But there was more that Tim had to send, so he shakily tapped on the phone's keys, creating the new message, and before he could change his mind he hit send. "John, I'm sorry." It read. Now John would know that the person who was texting him at least knew him, and they were sorry for whatever they had done to him.

Was he foolish for doing this? Was he putting John's life in peril? Would John tell someone about these messages-someone like Mycroft?

But what was that! A sudden large shift of the flat curtains? He knew what that meant; the door had been opened and closed. Either John was on the move, or someone entered. One more text, he needed to do it. He needed to change the army doctor's life as he knew it, and it would change Tim's as well.

Keys clicking: as well. e knew it, and it would change Tim'n his body was going to start sk and a halfs brillient f into the empty air. typed.

I am no longer Tim Cumbersham. I am Sherlock Holmes.

Sent: 'SH.'


	4. The Ambulance

The sickening yellow and green colored ambulance slowly pulled away from the building and carried on down the street, not bothering to turn on the sirens as is lazily carried John Watson to St. Bart's for the second time that month. It rolled on as if the ill passenger was dead, and there was no rush.

Like a lonely black hearse to a man whom had no friends would carry a long dead man down the road on his last car ride, on the way to his final resting place. _I am that man_. A grim faced Watson thought as he tearfully glared over to Mycroft Holmes who had quite surprisingly decided to go with John. "Long dead and alone."

A single tear slid from the corner of his bloodshot eyes and left and slid sluggishly down John's sweat dampened check, picking up sever droplets in its way, and dispersed into his messy sandy hair.

The only indication that it ever occurred was the itchy trail the salty droplet left in its wake.


	5. The Boat

_So this is a poem that I wrote awhile ago when I first realized I was in love with someone who I could never have. It is my first real poem, and is probably not good, but I thought it might work with the Sherlock theme. I would love to get some some constructive criticism or even complements so if you guys want **please** feel free to write a review._

_Sorry that the chapters are getting short, I am going to high school during the day, then college in the afternoon and afterwhich I have a whole bunch of homework so the only time I ever get to type is late at night when I should be sleeping :L but anyways! ENJOY!_

**The Boat**

Floating there

Out of reach.

Almost if

I can't see.

I scream

To be heard.

He hears

But I'm ignored.

Others notice

They walk away.

I wish

One would stay.

Floating there

Out of reach.

Almost if

I can't see.

He's there

Waiting for me.

Conversing together

Only he'd see.

Words said

Set in stone.

He's gone

I am alone.

Floating there

Out of reach.

Almost if

I can't see.

Boats float

Silently and quietly.

There's one

He's riding falsely.

Within reach

So far away.

I wish

He'd just stay.

Floating there

Out of reach.

Almost if

I can't see.

There's me

Waiting and praying.

He's there

Watching and baiting.

The boat

Always his rampart.

We're together

An ocean apart.


	6. Isabella Corsetti

_(Feel free to write a review) Like I stated in the before chapter, sorry that the chapters are getting short, I am going to high school during the day, then college in the afternoon and afterwhich I have a whole bunch of homework so the only time I ever get to type is late at night when I should be sleeping :L but anyways! ENJOY!_

Sherlock sat there in the fridge air, gawking at the ambulance that had just pulled up to John's house right after Mycroft's sleek car, and lazily carried Watson, and Mycroft off in the direction of the Hospital. He had no idea what had happened, but was certain it was the result of him having sent out the text messages. From what he had noticed John looked absolutely fine, aside from a small dribble of bright red blood that had worked a small trail through his eyebrow, crusting on his eyelid and sliding off of his jaw and onto the large sweater he was wearing.

It had only been about two minutes since it had pulled away when Sherlock's phone vibrating rapidly and repeatedly-snapping him out of the shock induced trance.

With a flick of the wrist he whipped the phone open and tapped on the touch screen with his long elegant fingers to open up the message. "What the HELL have you done Sherlock Holmes?! -MH."

That was when he lost it. Tears erupted from his reddening eyes and poured down his face and sobs racked his body. The phone slid from his hands and clattered onto the cement blow with an audible crack that was followed by the sprinkling of tiny reflective pieces of glass that landed just about everywhere.

Sherlock raised his hands to his face, placed them against his skin that was growing red from the tears that were freezing before they even made it off of his face, and sobbed into his rough skin. "I have ruined it all. I have hurt my best friend and he will never forgive me for as long as I live. My brother hates me." There was a shuffling noise behind the weeping man but it went unheard as he gave one last deep sob, "I wish I had actually died!" He didn't care if he looked like a lunatic and someone recognized him, he needed to let it out.

Suddenly there was a rapid tap on his shoulder, causing him to sniffle and then growl into his hands, "Whoever the hell it is, leave me to mourn."

"But sir," a soft voice sounded from about two feet above his head which caused Sherlock to deduce that it was a young girl- probably teens- who was around five foot eleven, "I wish to help you."

"Leave me to freeze to death!" He bellowed and pounded two white-knuckled fits as hard as he could against the wood beside him, causing it to creak. He could tell that he startled the girl because her thin shadow that stretched over him and onto the walk in front gave a sudden jump.

"Sherlock…" She whispered.

He froze and whispered, "What did you just call me?"

"Sherlock... please let me help you. It pains me to see you like this." The girl murmured sadly and put a gentle hand on the dirty coat that covered the man she was addressing.

Slowly he began to turn around until the girl was in plain view. She was about the predicted height, around one hundred pounds that left her curves showing attractively through a tight black coat and jeans that fit her long legs perfectly, her small feet, about size six, were covered with stylish purple and white plaid slip-ons that looked like they didn't offer much warmth, and what stood out the most was her head: on top of a face that was almost as white as snow that had extremely high cheekbones that rested below ice blue eyes (and created extremely deep hollows in her cheeks), was a head of insanely curly brown hair. Her hair was so long that it was swept up and over her shoulder so that it cascaded down her front, stopping just short of her hip.

She was a spitting image of Sherlock Holmes.

"D-do I know you?" The blubbering man stuttered and wiped the frozen droplets off his face so he didn't look like such and idiot. "How do you know who I am?"

"Sherly! How could you forget who I am!?" The woman blurted and gripped the end of her sleeve with the tips of her fingers and reached forward to wipe at the baffled man's face but stopped when she realized that he truly didn't know who she was. As she gingerly lowered her hand she whispered, "Sherlock, you truly don't know who I am?"

A slow shake of his head. "Should I?"

Genuine hurt played across her face as she whispered, "I'm Isabella Corsetti." Something changed in his face at the mention of the name, "Sherlock, I thought you would remember your own daughter."


End file.
